


Letters

by Deepdarkwaters, VioletSmith



Series: Bespoke [2]
Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: 1990s, Epistolary, Long-Distance Relationship, Love Letters, M/M, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-27
Updated: 2016-08-27
Packaged: 2018-08-11 10:02:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7886833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deepdarkwaters/pseuds/Deepdarkwaters, https://archiveofourown.org/users/VioletSmith/pseuds/VioletSmith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry is far too fond of florid Regency romances and likes to write sprawling mushy love letters when he's away. It doesn't come quite as naturally to Merlin (or Gawain, as he's known in 1991).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Letters

September 23rd 1991

Dear Gawain,

When I told Victoria I'd be away for six months she teased all night about how poorly I'd function without you. I told her nonsense, I'm a grown man with an excess of tremendously dangerous skills and I'm perfectly capable of looking after myself. Obviously I don't want to admit to her (flawless) face how right she is.

It struck me this evening how long a time it really is to be away from you after having lived in your pockets for so long. Even when we both work away from home I don't believe we've gone for more than two weeks or so since the moment we met without at least a day of break or a fleeting few seconds together as we're both arriving and leaving. So this is my plan: I shall write to you weekly, like a soldier to his sweetheart waiting loyally at home. I'm imagining your face now, and that particular delicious slant of a single raised eyebrow you brandish like a dagger when you're unimpressed. Perhaps instead I ought to say a soldier to a soldier or a sweetheart to a sweetheart; I can scarcely tell the difference. We're both, aren't we? I must admit I rather like the romance of it all, although no amount of letters will ever stand up to the way you look in the mornings: sleepy and disgruntled with the creases of the pillow stamped into your cheek like the holes in shortbread. I shall miss that terribly. I can't begin to count the number of people who have seen me dribbling on myself in my sleep or that dreadful way my hair goes flat when I'm not awake to tend to it, but knowing that nobody else in the world gets to see this part of you never fails to make me feel just as strange and giddy as I did the very first time. You know I'm not a jealous man as a rule; I simply want to keep you for myself like a butterfly. I shall never be able to tell you how overwhelmingly glad and grateful I am that you're happy to stay put. No pins for you, no glass. I couldn't cage you if I tried, and I would never want to try. That you stay even when your escape would be no more difficult than walking out of our front door is, I hope you know, the greatest miracle and wonder of my life.

I shall send you photographs of the house once I get the roll of film developed. It's fucking vulgar, you won't approve at all. Needless to say I adore it completely and absolutely with a passion I usually reserve for the tiny dogs of strangers in the street, and it's giving me all sorts of delightful ideas about how many chandeliers I could cram into our minuscule piece of London if I really put my mind to it. Prepare yourself for scarlet walls, gilded everything, and marble sculptures of genitalia. One of those drinks stands in the form of an ersatz antique globe. Possibly a chrome and neon jukebox that plays nothing but Elvis Presley and has a poorly airbrushed painting of him on the side, rhinestones and all.

I'm writing this from my living room, where the doors open directly onto the beach. I've pulled my armchair over to feel the breeze and taste the tingle of salt in the air. Soon it'll be sunset; there are streaks of candy floss clouds in the sky, and the sun looks as though it's balancing right on the edge of the horizon. I feel I could stamp my foot on the veranda boards and jolt the entire earth, and the sun would roll merrily away like one of Mr Pickle's toys. Please be kind to the old boy while I'm away - I fear he's not much longer for this world. Perhaps you'd take him to the vet for me and see whether she thinks he might enjoy a trip to the Californian seaside? I had every intention to come and focus fully on my job like the sensible responsible adult Arthur keeps telling me I am, but the thought of being apart from the both of you for half a year is already ghastly and I've only been here four hours. It's terribly quiet without his farting and snoring or the bleeps and whirrs of all your mystifying gadgets, in the house at least. There are girls shouting and laughing playing volleyball on the beach, and that beautiful boundless roar of the ocean. Pacific is a funny name for something that feels so infinite - I'd have gone with the Perilous Ocean. The Extremely Fucking Huge And Noisy Ocean. I can see mad people surfing in it. Do you think there are sharks here? If I suspect even a dolphin I will be packing my bags and moving into a high rise hotel in the middle of the city. Bloody uncivilised, horsing about in the water being touched by seaweed and creatures that unfortunately didn't have the good manners to die out with the dinosaurs. However, I'm very much looking forward to slathering myself in oil and baking on the beach like a Christmas turkey at every possible opportunity. I shall come back to you as tanned and tough as an old boot. Will you still love me when I look like a sort of macabre leather doll of myself stitched by a grotesque horror film murderer? I suppose we'll see.

I wonder where you're reading this. At home, I expect, leaning against the kitchen counter with your morning cup of tea. Will you carry it around in your pocket, soldier sweetheart? I'll kiss the page right here on this X, so if you touch it I'm kissing your fingers. If you kiss it I'm kissing your mouth. Will you? Nobody's watching. I dare you.

I'm going to pour myself some whisky and put my hand down my trousers now. Goodnight, Gawain. May these five million years apart pass as quickly as the days we spend together.

H x


End file.
